The screen behind me flickered again, then settled on something I had kept buried for years.
A medical report.
My name sat at the top. The date was clear. Three years ago. Long before tonight. Long before any of this chaos.
It wasn't a single page. It was everything. Evaluations. Prescriptions. Therapy notes. Follow-ups. Line after line of proof that couldn't be brushed away.
The air changed.
Lewis had already planned ahead. Clear copies were passed quietly to several people in the room. I felt it before anyone spoke. That heavy silence. The kind that presses on your chest.
Vivian grabbed one of the papers. Her fingers shook as she read. Her lips parted.
"No… this isn't possible," she whispered. "Elena…?"
Her voice cracked.
Shock slid into guilt. Guilt into grief. Whatever image she had held onto for years shattered right there in her hands.
